


Calypso

by Batedbreath



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And snow, Angst, Emotional Infidelity, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, New York City, Warning for romanticizing dysfunctional love, public defender!Enjolras, student!grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 09:46:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13738251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batedbreath/pseuds/Batedbreath
Summary: “Grantaire is coming home for Christmas.”“Mmm," Enjolras hums, all nonchalance. He takes a measured sip of his beer and leans back into the worn cushions.In another life, Enjolras muses, he could have been an actor or a politician, maybe a spy. His heart pounds but his voice never wavers and his hands don’t shake.





	Calypso

**Author's Note:**

> Title derived from the song of the same name, Calypso by Jackson Lundy.
> 
> Les Amis met in college on account of them all being exchange students in America.  
> Warning for excessive trope use and unapologetic self-indulgence

2:23. He usually doesn’t stay at the office this late but in an hour or two he could be done reading this deposition. Enjolras is so tired; the words in front of him are starting to blur together, and he has that kind of persistent, thudding headache he gets when his body refuses to keep up with him. He scrunches his eyebrows together, squinting at the page, reminding himself to go in to the optometrist for a stronger prescription.

The next time he looks at the clock it’s 3:16 and he’s officially missed the last F train home. He could walk the 45 minutes or wait for the next train at 5:03 to go home, shower, change his clothes and come back to work. Or… he could just sleep at his desk. The thought barely crosses his slow churning mind before he’s tossing his reading glasses aside and falls asleep atop his stacks of paper.

He’s awoken by his desk phone a few hours later.

He answers without lifting his head. “New York County Defender Services.”

“Hey.”

Grantaire’s soft voice on the other end of the line forces Enjolras’ back straight.

“Hey,” he says.

“I thought you weren’t going to sleep in your office anymore.”

“I didn’t.” Enjolras pushes his hair from his eyes and straightens his tie as if Grantaire is in the room with him and can see the evidence of his lie. He stifles a yawn.

“This is your work number.”

“Right.” He’s momentarily flustered as Alexandra from the office next door walks in and places a cup of coffee in front of him and walks right back out. He checks his watch; it’s 7 in the morning. He has a meeting in 45 minutes. He holds the phone against his chest so Grantaire can’t hear and calls, “Thank you!” to her. She waves him off, smiling. “So,” he holds the phone between his shoulder and ear as he leans back in his desk chair and takes a long drink from the too-hot coffee, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“What, I can’t call an old friend?” His voice in Enjolras’ ear goes playful.

Enjolras smiles down at his lap, fiddles with his tie. He’s glad no one can see him right now. There’s that familiar buzz in his blood, like he can’t wait to see what happens next; it’s more effective waking him up than the best cup of coffee. It’s been seven years since he met Grantaire, three since they graduated college and still, he feels that pang of want, dulled by time and distance, sharpen with a simple phone call.

“Is this a drunk dial?”

He can picture Grantaire rolling his eyes. “I haven’t done that since college. Plus, it’s morning.”

“Just checking,” he answers lightly. At least he will always have this: this back and forth, this teasing, this tension, this bone-deep ache that took up residence at the base of his spine when he was eighteen years old and refused to leave, even now.

Grantaire chuckles and it crackles down the phone line. His laugh is happy, comforting.

 “Tell me about your life,” Grantaire says and Enjolras does. He goes on and on, tells him about everything from Bahorel’s birthday to this case he’s been working on to the football game Paris lost against Madrid to that new movie Enjolras wants to see but hasn’t had the time for yet. He’s thinking of going by himself next Sunday, not because he has no one to go with but because he loves going to movies by himself; It’s therapeutic, he says, to sit alone in the dark and let a story wash over you. He updates him on everything Grantaire has missed since going to Paris for graduate school. Since he’s left these phone calls have become semi-routine. Every few weeks Enjolras will get a call, never on the same day or at the same time. Every time Grantaire says, ‘tell me about your life’ and Enjolras will, for over an hour if his schedule allows. He’s never been accused of being brief. Grantaire will respond quietly, soft in a way he almost never is in person. His French accent is more pronounced than Enjolras remembers it ever being. There’s a melancholy about his voice sometimes that makes Enjolras wonder whether these conversations don’t make Grantaire miss New York, miss his friends. But he always calls.

“What about you?” he asks finally.

“I’ll be home for Christmas.” Enjolras heart skips a beat. “Gabriel is coming with. You remember I told you about him?”

“Gabriel,” Enjolras repeats after a beat. It almost sounds like a sneer. “You’re still seeing him?”

“Yeah.” He can hear the shrug in Grantaire’s voice. “He’s cool. Laid back”

 _Laid back._ Another thing Enjolras has never been accused of being.

“I could pick you up at the airport. Both of you, I mean.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Feuilly already said he would.”

Enjolras is inexplicably offended. “I could’ve done it.”

“We get in midnight on Thursday. I didn’t want to encourage your lack of sleep.”

Enjolras stares down at his lukewarm coffee and nods even though Grantaire can’t see him. “Okay.” It comes out too quiet, too soft, too telling.

“But I’ll see you Friday night, right? At Joly’s?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he says honestly.

There’s a silence so long that Enjolras thinks Grantaire has hung up but then he says, “Good. See you soon, Enjolras.”

 “I, um – ” But as usual, he can’t find the words. “I’ll see you soon.”

*

 “Grantaire is coming home for Christmas.”

“Mmm” Enjolras hums, all nonchalance. He takes a measured sip of his beer and leans back into the worn couch cushions.

In another life, Enjolras muses, he could have been an actor or maybe a politician, or a spy. His heart pounds but his voice never wavers and his hands don’t shake. Even his two best friends can rarely see through his act.

“He’s bringing that guy this time, too” Courfeyrac says and maybe Enjolras is not quite as convincing as he thought because Combeferre’s eyes slide over to him as if in search of a reaction.

“What’s his name again?” he asks with polite disinterest.

Courfeyrac tosses back what’s left of his drink. He sucks his teeth and pronounces clearly, “Gabriel.”

Enjolras nods slowly like he didn’t already know this. They’re both looking at him as though awaiting some kind of response. His eyes flit between them and he has the sudden claustrophobic feeling of being trapped. He slaps his hands on his knees and starts to get up. “Courf, play me a round of pool.”

“Enjolras –”

“If I win, neither of you mention what I think you’re about to. At least not ‘til after Christmas.”

His two best friends look at each other.

“If I lose, I’ll buy your drinks for the rest of the night.”

“Yeah, okay,” Courfeyrac says in a pained way, as though his hands were tied by that offer.

*

Despite Enjolras’ promises to himself that he would go home and change before heading to Joly’s Friday night, he ends up staying at the office until 9 and going straight to Joly’s apartment in his button-down shirt and slacks, leather messenger bag slung around his chest.

Courfeyrac opens the door, pulls him into a hug, and yells, “Enjolras is here!” as if they hadn’t seen each other at lunch that very day. Enjolras grins at him and tries to ignore his heart beat kicking into double time when he notices a head of inky black curls near the kitchen. The man he assumes is Gabriel is standing next to him, pouring a drink like he belongs here.

Enjolras skirts them, saying hi to everyone else in the room. He can feel Grantaire’s eyes searing holes in his back.  

Finally, once he’s been back-slapped, greeted loudly by everyone and handed a beer, he decides he can’t really put it off longer and heads toward Grantaire across the room.

Grantaire tracks his movements, a smile pulling at his mouth, but his eyes look almost nervous, his shoulders stiff. Enjolras has never been sure how to do this -- should he hug him the way he hugged Marius and Joly? What does he say? What does he do with his hands? They feel awkward and too big at his sides. He puts them in the pockets of his slacks.

“Grantaire,” he says, and bites the inside of his cheek. He looks good and young, the way he did in college. His hair has grown a bit so that his curls cover the back of his neck and his eyes are bright even with the ever-present dark circles under them. He’s wearing black jeans and a well-worn grey t-shirt. Enjolras feels too warm. He pulls at his collar.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Grantaire says, his smile widening a little when Enjolras stops in front of him, “You look good.” He touches Enjolras tie between two fingers and then let’s his hand fall, rocking back on his heels. His smile goes teasing. “Nice tie.”

Enjolras laughs for no reason and it comes out embarrassingly breathy. He ducks his head. “Thanks. You – I mean, you always look good.” Grantaire is looking at him like he’s taken leave of his senses, but he doesn’t say anything back to that so Enjolras turns to the guy who must be Gabriel, smiles his fakest smile and fails at being subtle inspecting the guy.

He’s good-looking, Enjolras guesses, if he was able to see him as anything else but a temporary intruder. He’s a few inches shorter than Enjolras with brown hair and brown eyes. One arm and both hands are tattooed.

“Bonjour,” Gabriel says and holds out his hand.  

He speaks almost no English and Enjolras momentarily considers pretending to have forgotten his first language entirely, so they wouldn’t have to interact any more than this. His need for propriety has never done very well against spite before and it only just manages this time.

*

“Where’d you meet?” Enjolras asks later, as if this information is of no real importance to him, a passing query. He leans against the counter in the kitchen.

Grantaire glances towards the living room where Gabriel is speaking in rapid French to Combferre. “En boîte,” Grantaire replies, mimicking Enjolras’ posh Parisian accent which had been more pronounced than usual speaking to Gabriel. “He bought me a drink.” He shrugs.

Enjolras whistles lowly. “Sounds like prince charming.” Grantaire eyes him sardonically as he takes a sip of his beer. His eyes are redder than they were earlier. “How much is a drink in Paris these days anyway? 5 euro? 6?”

Granaire nods, unmoved. “I’m a cheap date.”

Enjolras hums, acquiescent, watching Gabriel across the room. “You haven’t mentioned him much. On the phone.” He looks back to Grantaire.

“Not much to say.”

“But you like him?”

Grantaire sips his beer, probably to prolong his answering the question and also probably to torture Enjolras. “The sex is pretty good,” he says finally, which does not answer the question at all. It also doesn’t succeed in it’s probable mission to make Enjolras stop his interrogation.

Enjolras snorts indelicately like the thought of Grantaire in bed with someone who isn’t him doesn’t make his stomach feel heavy as lead and his chest feel hollow.

“Sounds like a catch.”

Grantaire downs the rest of his beer. “Are we gonna play 20 questions all night?”

“What do you see in him?”

Grantaire opens his mouth then closes it. “He – he’s smart and he’s – I don’t need to justify him to you. He _likes_ me, Enjolras, as fucking insane as that must sound. Why –“ he takes a breath, “why are you doing this?” His voice breaks.

Enjolras stares at him, out of his depth and unsure what to say or how to say it or where he fucked up. This is, he thinks, their biggest problem. This skirting around whatever they are really trying to say. He just wishes he knew the words. So instead he says,

“Want to go sit outside?”

Most of the anger drains from Grantaire’s face to make room for confusion. “It’s fucking snowing.”

“I love the snow.”

Grantaire snorts. “You hate the snow.”

“Yeah, but you love it.”

Grantaire’s eyes search his face and Enjolras has no idea what he’s looking for. He ignores the impulse to look away.

“Yeah, okay.”

*

Even with the light pollution the stars are bright tonight.

The soft light from inside filters onto the fire escape and illuminates half of Grantaire’s face. Enjolras watches the way his long, elegant fingers hold his messily rolled cigarette, shaking a little from the cold. He doesn’t look at Enjolras but rather keeps his eyes on his boots as he lets out a breath of chalky white smoke. It feels quieter, tenser between them than it ever has. The alcohol allows him to watch Grantaire’s face shamelessly, almost hungrily, in a way he would never allow himself if he were sober. Tonight, he will let the tight cord around his self-control slacken, if only a little. At least he still has the sense to clasp his hands together in his lap so he won’t reach out and touch. It’s been years since they were alone together, even just like this.  _This is a bad idea,_ says a tiny voice in the back of Enjolras’ head which he swiftly ignores.

“Do you miss France?” Grantaire asks suddenly.

Enjolras nods and plucks the cigarette from the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. “Of course. I’ll go back home someday.” He hasn’t had a single cigarette in months. The muscles in his neck seem to relax at the familiarity.

Grantaire smiles at him. “You’ll never leave when everyone else is here.” He nods towards the fogged window where he can see the outline of their friends milling around, happy and warm.

Enjolras leans his head back and looks up at the sky, letting that truth wash over him. Grantaire is right, he probably won’t and if Grantaire stays in Paris they may never live in the same city again, not for years at least.

He looks at Grantaire and the stars force him to lean over and press a kiss to his cheek which lands near his jaw. His skin is clean and warm, his stubble rough against Enjolras’ lips. Grantaire turns wide, wild blue eyes on him.

For a moment he feels stone-cold sober. This close, he can make out every individual eye lash, can feel Grantaire’s warm breath against his lips and it forces the world into stark relief, too much whiskey or not. The music and voices from inside drift out to them but Enjolras' ears are ringing too loudly to pay it any attention. His eyes flick back and forth between Grantaire’s shocked eyes and his parted lips. For one insane moment he’s sure that if he kisses him now, Grantaire will kiss him back. It wouldn’t take much; he’d need only tilt his head and lean in; those perforated breaths would be cut short by his tongue and –

“Grantaire!”

They both visibly jump as Joly appears seemingly from nowhere and throws his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders. Enjolras looks away, his mouth dry, heart pounding. He plasters on an amiable smile and climbs back through to the living room, heading straight for the whiskey.

*

Enjolras wakes up sick and alone on Joly’s couch. His stomach churns and cold sweat breaks out along the nape of his neck and forehead. The room is spinning slightly so he doesn’t even bother trying to sit up. Someone put a blanket over him and took off his shoes.

The night before comes rushing back to him and he checks his watch; It’s already 10.

Enjolras is sure he did nothing wrong last night. But god, it would have felt good. To be that close with him. To be allowed to know the smell and feel and taste of him. Enjolras rolls over to his back and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes to stop the nauseating spinning.

That’s when he notices it. The most beautiful and terrible thing he’s ever worn. The knife that plunges into his gut and twists, written in that familiar cursive across his wrist in black ink:

_Love you always._

For a moment he well and truly hates Grantaire. Hates them both for being so brave about everything else in their lives but this and wishes, abstractly, that one of them would just get amnesia or die so this could just fucking _end_ already. Then he’s not crying, but sobbing, retching, sucking in loud breaths around his tears. The force of his reaction surprises even him. His chest seems cracked open or expanded. He curls himself around his stomach as though to physically hold his pieces together, clutching his wrist to his chest. The knuckles of his right hand go white around the bones of his left wrist, covering the words written there.

“Enjolras – what -- ?”

At the sound of Combferre’s voice Enjolras forces his body to uncurl, throws his arm over his eyes and sucks in a shallow breath. He hears his soft foot falls against the carpet and then feels the couch dip under Combferre’s weight. Enjolras can feel his questioning, concerned gaze even if he can’t see it with his arm draped across his face.

He gives himself the space of a few more deep, scratchy breaths before he slowly removes his arm from across his eyes and lays it on the couch palm up, so he can see the words written on his skin. He can’t quite look at Combeferre so he keeps his eyes on the cracks in the plaster of the ceiling. Combferre takes his wrist gently and examines it in confusion. Enjolras meets his eyes and understanding washes over his features. The plain pity evident on his best friend’s face is too much so he looks back to the cracked ceiling. The unshed tears in his eyes spill over his cheeks and wet the hair behind his ears when he blinks.

“Get it off me,” he murmurs.

”Okay,” Combferre says, squeezes his wrist. “Okay.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 'En boîte' means ‘In a nightclub’ in French  
> When I say ‘football’, I mean soccer.


End file.
